Down with the sickness
by Redhead Maniac
Summary: When Dean Winchester recieves a distressed call from Castiel, claiming he's in the throes of death, he puts the case on hold and drives off with his brother to get there as fast as he can. Now who knew that they drove all the way to Durango to face a viscious, deadly.. Flue?


"Dean, I think I might be dying." The deadpanned voice of the angel drifts through the speaker, making Dean halt mid-process of cooking. Well, more like mid-process of putting-a-sorry-excuse-of-a-sandwich-together, but that still counts as cooking, right?

"Wha-? Cas, what's wrong?" Hearing his brother's concerned question, the younger Winchester looks up from his research on their recent case, arching an eyebrow in silent inquiry and receiving a short shrug in return.

"I think I'm dying, Dean."

"Yeah, I heard you perfectly fine the first time! The question's why. Why you think you're dying, Cas?" There is a slight pause and a soft sigh on the other end of the line.

"I… am not sure of the reasons, to be honest." At that, Dean has to pinch the bridge of his nose in utter frustration.

"What happened? You had a fight with your brothers? Demons? You wounded?" The sandwich is left on the counter, forgotten in Dean's preference of agitatedly pacing around the room, with Sam continuing to shoot him questioning glances.

"That's the point, Dean. I didn't. I have no physical damage, as far as I'm concerned." Obviously, this answer is not to the hunter's satisfaction.

"Come on buddy, I can't help you if you don't tell me anything! What the heck is so wrong you think you might be dying?!" Dean finally snaps. This whole situation is starting to get on his nerves, making the Winchester snarl into the mouthpiece of one of his many phones. Actually, that reminds him to get a new one soon enough, as the last flip-open got destroyed on the previous hunt. Dean hates ghouls with a vigour.

"My whole body hurts. I am very tired and it is becoming hard to process any of the thoughts, as well as maintain a proper conversation." Castiel sounds very uncomfortable admitting to his symptoms, but he doesn't have much choice, since he is the one who called Dean in the first place. "I need your help, Dean. I don't know what this is. Can you come?" The urgency in the angel's voice pushes the man to make a split-second decision, "Yeah, sure, just hang on in there, ok?"

Having offed his phone and now rubbing at his face with mild irritation and a considerate amount of worry, the elder brother almost forgets about his sibling still waiting for any clarification on what just happened over the phone.

"Dean? Are we going somewhere? What's wrong with Cas? Did he tell you?"

"No Sammy, he doesn't know. C'mon, pack up, we better go before he gets worse or something." By "something" Sam automatically assumes the obvious worst. It has been exactly one week and five days since they left Cas in Durango, CO, powerless and, as Dean has so eloquently put it – useless. The angel took it pretty well, considering, but Sam still feels pretty bad about that. Although he had begrudgingly agreed with Dean – a mojo-drained Cas was, in actuality, a big baby. They couldn't afford to be watching him at all times, and he would probably end up getting seriously wounded on one of the jobs, so it was for the best. As for the Žaltys responsible, well, let's just say it went missing after giving some cryptic bullshit about roads, equality and not repeating the same mistakes again. Yup, not helpful.

So, having decided to put their current case of probable-ghost-haunting on hold in favour of Cas, the brothers stuff everything they need into the bags and leave the seedy motel in just under 20 minutes, hitting the road to the next town over. Originally, Cas was stationed there until either his drained mojo came back to him, or the brothers figured something out – which they haven't. As Dean pushes the pedal to the metal, he can't help but worry for their more-than-he-likes-human friend.

What the brothers don't expect to see after barging in the door is a tousled, tired-looking Cas with bloodshot eyes, pink-dusted cheekbones and…

"Is that a running nose?" Sam's baffled voice carries over the tiny apartment, making the angel on the sofa freeze like a teenager caught mid-jack.

"I…Sam, Dean, you're here." Castiel sounds rather confused, although the relief carried over in his voice is undeniably there.

"Yeah, dumbo, of course we're here. Where else would we be, huh?" Taking a quick look around, Dean passes the living quarters as supernaturally-safe, noticing the few demon traps added to the decor after their leave. "So care to tell the story now, Cas?"

The angel squints his bright eyes, and for a moment Dean could've sworn they were clouded and hazy with…something.

"I have no idea what is going on to my body. All I know is that I feel very, _very_ tired and I'm seeing things, I suppose."

"You suppose?" Dean quirks an eyebrow, taking in the angel's rumpled coat and his slanted tie. "Cas, when was the last time you showered? Or ate, or slept for that matter?"

"Dean, I…"

"Dean, I think he has a fever" Sam has his palm pressed against Castiel's clammy forehead.

"What?!"

"A fever, Dean. And just look at him! I think he's sick."

"You have got to be kidding me, Sammy. Please, don't tell me we–"

"We what, Dean? Drove here to help, 'cause he's obviously not handling this on his own?" There is a challenging note to Sam's words, which doesn't escape the elder Winchester's hearing. Hell, he even understands the cause of it, but come on. A common cold, that's what they drove over to the next city for?

"Sammy…" The warning in Dean's voice is clear, but Sam is not standing down, not this time.

"You know what, I'm tired of your bullshit, Dean! Stop running from your problems and just admit it already!"

"Admit what?" The room becomes so thick with invisible pressure that Cas, huffing in laboured breaths, doesn't dare intervene.

"You know what! – never mind. I'm going to get some Advil, and you," The glare directed at Dean is flinch-worthy. "help him clean up and boil some water. I hope to God they sell some raspberry jam here." Swiftly standing back up from his crouch in front of the sofa, Sam gently pats Cas on the shoulder. "It's going to be okay, I promise. And don't mind Dean – he's a dick because he's clearly worried."

Screw little brothers and their perceptive selves.

So, left alone with Cas after the door banged closed (Sam is clearly irritated, but for what – Dean can't put his life on it), the man comes closer to pick up two rumpled blankets and throw them on the chair in a heap.

"C'mon Cas, get up. We need to get you into a shower." As the Winchester helps the still silent angel up to his feet, he scrunches up his nose, "God, you reek!" When he gets nothing in return, he chances a look at Castiel's face, noticing his lost and utterly miserable expression. "Cas? What's wrong?"

After a hitched breath and an awkward move to wrap his arm around Dean for support, the angel looks him in the eye. "You are right, you shouldn't have come here. I should have handled this on my own, I'm sorry." Dean is momentarily speechless, and then he fights the need to whack the angel upside the head, growling, "Don't you dare apologise. Sammy's right, ok, I'm sorry —it was a dick thing to say. Look, we told you to call if you ran into trouble, and you did. Doesn't matter if it's demons or a bloody flu, 'cause you might just as well collapse from the last one. God knows you've never been sick in your life." And he thinks this is the longest tirade he's given anyone in the past couple of months. He also thinks it's worth it, because Cas' expression softens and there is a slight tug on the corner of his mouth, before his eyes roll back and he collapses on Dean with a strangled moan.

It's a difficult task undressing the unconscious man and putting him in a spare t-shirt and a pair of grey pants, but Dean manages. He thinks of giving Cas a cloth-bath, but then it seems too intimate, so he abandons the thought. Surely, it's not like he's never seen Cas naked before —after all he did have to explain a couple of things to the guy in his first days as human, and some rather awkward and hilarious incidents ensued, but still the thought creeps him out a bit, if only Sam's right. Those accusations did hit home, whether he likes to admit it or not. For now, however, Dean chooses not to ponder on them.

It takes Sam an hour to get back. When he opens the door and strolls inside, a brown paper bag under his arm, he still looks a bit pissed, but far lesser than before.

"So, how's he?" Carefully Sam toes off his shoes and walks up to the tiny table, pulling the contents of the paper bag out. Among those Dean sees a jar of —what he presumes is raspberry— jam, some random boxes suspiciously looking like Strepsils and the promised Advil. There are some sandwiches thrown on the counter too, and a plastic bowl of salad. _Sam and his greenery_, Dean thinks, _ew_.

"Not getting better if that's what you're asking. In fact, he friggin' collapsed on me." Dean looks tense sitting on the sofa, with Cas' upper body over his lap, and Sam decides not to comment on that. "Sam, I think Advil won't cut it. Maybe we should get him to a proper doctor, huh?"

The younger Winchester sighs and opens the box of medicine, chancing a sideways look at his brother. "So, obviously you didn't boil the water and make him drink any, did you." He sounds rather unimpressed as he proceeds to turn the kettle on. "Dean, let's just try to handle this first by ourselves, ok? If the meds don't help and his fever doesn't go down, we'll drive him, I promise. I just…" He sighs, "What if they find something unusual about him, Dean? For God's sake, he's still an angel, we don't know just what effect on his vessel that might have. I'd rather not risk us getting any more attention, if possible."

Dean sees his point. "Fine. How long should we wait?"

"A day, maybe two." Sam's voice is gentle and carries hope as he pours the hot water into a mug and dilutes it with some cold, making the liquid just warm enough not to scald. "Here, make him drink this" He hands Dean one orange tablet and the mug, and Dean takes them with a silent thanks.

"Cas. Hey, Cas, wake up. C'mon, you need to take this and then you can sleep, okay? Cas?" Dean gently shakes the angel on the shoulder, then a bit rougher as he gets no response. Finally, Castiel groans and cracks an eye open, hazy blue trying to find focus in his surroundings.

"Dean" His voice is croaky, so he must have a sore throat, Dean thinks. He shushes Castiel and pops the pill between the angels's dry lips, holding up the mug so Castiel can wash the lumpy thing down. The Winchester watches as his Adam's apple bobs up and down in successful gulps, and then Cas lays his back down on Dean's lap, groaning softly into the cool fall air. It takes him seconds to fall back into heavy slumber.

"..You want a sandwich?" Sam, having watched the short exchange quips up.

Castiel's fever goes down by midday of the second day. It's been kind of awkward and stressful sharing the only available bed with his huge brother of a moose, so no wonder Dean is pissy from light to dawn, snapping at little things and whining about his comfort and a definite lack of pie. Add his worry over Castiel into the equation, and you get one tired, mildly irritated Sam on hand.

"Dean, just eat the freaking salad already, would you?! Or give it to me if you don't want it!"

"Shut up Sammy, I ain't giving you my food! Not my fault you can't buy anything normal. Ugh, next time I'll go for supplies and you babysit."

"Fine! I still can't believe you—"

"Dean? Sam?" The brothers stop mid-banter and rush into the tiny living room, presented with a view of an owlish-looking Castiel trying to sit up and miserably failing.

"Hey, hey, take it easy." Dean makes it just in time to catch Cas before the latter falls off the edge of the sofa.

"Why are you here?" The angel looks confused, furrowing his brow and trying to add things up, which they obviously don't from his perspective.

"Um, you don't remember?" Sam inquires, "You called Dean three days ago, saying that you were…um..dying."

Castiel still looks puzzled. "Was I?"

"Yes. Well, no, not really. You just had a really high fever. I think it's safe to assume you caught the virus going around town this time of the year."

"Oh." Is all Castiel manages to say. Shortly after he winces. "I think my throat, not the fever, is killing me." Dean huffs a laugh at that, sitting down on the armrest and looking at Cas with what Sam dubs as affection. "Yeah, it will be doing that for a while. Sore throat is a bitch."

The angel nods, huddling the blankets closer to his body. "Thank you. For coming over. You didn't have to."

"Of course we did!" The enthusiasm in Dean's voice falters, but Sam is the only one to take notice. Dean does feel guilty about his previous outburst, and he is glad Cas doesn't seem to remember it.

"Alright then, I'll just leave you two to it and go do some research on that Žaltys. Maybe there's something we missed."

As Sam leaves once again, Dean feels unnerved by his sudden proximity to the other male. Castiel's breath is still raspy and laboured, impossibly blue eyes shining from his sunken face. The dude really lost some weight during his sickness.

"You hungry? I can whip up something, nothing big though. A sandwich maybe, some tea and toast?"

Castiel shakes his head and turns to face the back of the sofa. "I feel I need much more rest. This is," He pauses, as if assessing his own feelings, which he probably is, "unnerving and very much frustrating."

"Hey, I can understand man. But you do need to drink a lot, and I did like you better with that extra pound on." Castiel smiles, turning his head over his shoulder, "I like you too, Dean." Dean is swallowing down his unborn words, staring at the angel with a flabbergasted expression until Cas continues,

"Could you bring me some water, then? But no food. Please."

The Winchester stands up numbly, looking fine as ever but completely jumbled on the inside. Did Cas mean what he thought he meant? Or was that just another obvious-and-obliviant statement coming from the angel? He can never tell, and he sure as hell doesn't know what he wants it to mean.

He does ponder on his feelings as he watches his friend gulp down the carefully heated water.

It is one day later that Dean finds himself in a compromising situation.

"Fuck! Cas!" He yells as he clutches his jaw, which is throbbing painfully from an accidental hit by Castiel's elbow. The angel immediately looses any last traces of a feverish dream and widens his eyes in horror, his face contorting with regret. "Dean, I am so sorry! I didn't mean to, are you alright?" He lifts up from his sideways position and from Dean, falling asleep on his lap becoming a common occurrence.

"Damn.. That's alright Cas, don't sweat it. Just try not to do it again." Dean rubs at the quickly reddening skin, wincing in displeasure and failing to notice the way Cas reaches out to him. A split second later there is a pair of warm hands cupping his jaw carefully and turning his head for the man's inspection. "Cas, what are you doing?" His voice is completely neutral and void of the turmoil he feels building inside.

"I am checking the damage, Dean." Castiel's voice is impossibly soft, barely audible as his breath grazes the angry skin gently, unintentionally. It's a very uncomfortable position to be frozen in — Dean, been perched on the armrest, and Castiel, having to stretch upwards to get a closer look at his handiwork on the Winchester's face.

"Cas?"

"Yes?"

"What you said, you know, about liking me—"

"I meant it, Dean. I do like you."

"As in, like-like me, or—" He is cut off by a pair of chapped lips on his own, and his breath goes out with a shudder. The next thing he knows, he's got one arm pulling Castiel up by the shoulders and his fingers tangled in messy dark curls, digits stroking the outer shell of Cas' ear tentatively. Finally, a breathy moan escapes him and Dean plunges in for a real kiss, tongue pushing and demanding entrance, which is gladly granted by the angel. He thinks he's wanted to do it for ages, all those times they yelled at each other, spittle almost landing on the other's face, or the times when Cas was still trying to figure out what exactly personal space meant, teleporting right in front of him, making him drown in impossible blue.

When they part finally, lips glossy and breaths uneven, Castiel looks at Dean with a very serious expression. "I've been wanting to do this for a very long time." And as his thoughts are echoed by the angel in that rumbling, low voice of his, Dean looses the last of his doubts and smashes their mouths together, growling like the possessive animal he is.

When Sam comes back empty handed from his research, he doesn't even try to hide his smile, wishing he had a camera. Because Castiel is finally resting on top of his brother, nuzzling into his shoulder as Dean wraps his arms protectively around the other's waist, a look of serene joy on his face.

Sam doesn't think he saw his brother more happy in years, if only for the first half hour after getting laid —and judging by the fully clothed state of the bodies, even that didn't take place. So he slips quietly into his room, hoping to finally get some shutter-eye now that he has the bed all to himself.

Strangely, Castiel's powers come back to him as soon as they drive past the sign "Durango", crossed out.

"You know, that riddle about roads, equality and the thing pissed off at Cas for meddling with the people who built a harbour near its habitat? I think what it meant was "get your ass out of here before you anger me more or stay and be doomed mojoless.""

"No shit, Sammy." Dean snorts as he glances at Castiel in the review mirror, their eyes meeting and the angel giving him the warmest, brightest smile he's ever caused.

They did figure things out, in more ways than one, in the end.

"Awesome."


End file.
